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The Rocket and me: The stuff of dreams

Maurice Richard's last NHL season began the year I was born.

He was a legend I had only read about, sometimes heard about from first-person fan accounts and seen snippets of in grainy black and white newsreels.

Yet he—and his passing—still mean something to me, admittedly a Habs fan who grew up in Toronto.

It isn't grief, I confess, but a sadness akin to watching that field you played in as a child being bulldozed for a shopping plaza.

A legend has gone, the likes of which we'll never see again. Like those war veterans, whose sacrifices we never witnessed yet know instinctively to respect.

Richard's exploits came at a simpler time, when family was your bond and time was to be enjoyed, not divvied up like it is today.

His legacy—still bright as the burning sun in the fading newspaper clippings, crackly radio clips and awkwardly amusing film clips of the time—is that of a man who gave his all for something most of us did as kids in winter, The Game.

Boy of winter
He seemed a boy of winter in a man's body with a man's ability, and you got the impression he would have been great at whatever he chose.

He won because he wanted to win, and pushed and pushed and pushed until he did, never giving up, never claiming fatigue or minor injury when I'm sure he suffered both.

He was what all boys (and girls)—hockey players or not—sometimes thought of wanting to become as they stared at ceilings of darkened bedrooms just before drifting off to sleep: straightforward, focused and ultimately successful.

That, I guess, is what his passing means: the end of an era when such dreams were dreamt and were still possible, having been replaced now, I fear, by dreams of fame and money.

I met the Rocket about five years ago at a small party following a Legends of Hockey game against a team of police officers in which he was referee.

I recall shaking hands (and having my picture taken) with Jean Beliveau, Guy Lafleur, Marcel Dionne—giants-all, and ones I did see play—then walking through the crowded room of laughing men and seeing an older man sitting alone.

I stood frozen for a second, unsure of whether to approach. He looked up and saw me, those eyes still piercing. But sensing my hesitation, those fierce eyes were suddenly surrounded by the crinkles of a quiet smile as he made a welcoming gesture.

Favourite uncle
I took a seat beside the man who turned to me as gently as anyone's favourite uncle. I sputtered in French how great an honour it was to meet him, but he politely ignored the accolade and began asking questions of me.

His brother, Henri, came over and the three of us chatted alone for about 10 minutes, and I impertinently asked if I could bother them to pose for a picture. Maurice stood before I finished the sentence.

Long past his days of glory, Richard still sensed the responsibility which came with what found him, but which he had never sought: stardome.

These past few days I've been trying to explain the Richard legacy to my son Jean-Marc, who somehow, at age 6, in my third-and fourth-hand retelling, recognizes that this was truly a great man worthy of respect. He asked to watch the funeral on television.

He will, I hope, be a second-generation admirer of a man whose exploits he never witnessed.